these things; but if you can't choose your aunt, it is wisest
in the long-run to choose the present and send her the bill.

Even friends of one's own set, who might be expected to know
better, have curious delusions on the subject. I am NOT
collecting copies of the cheaper editions of Omar Khayyam. I
gave the last four that I received to the lift-boy, and I
like to think of him reading them, with FitzGerald's notes,
to his aged mother. Lift-boys always have aged mothers;
shows such nice feeling on their part, I think.

Personally, I can't see where the difficulty in choosing
suitable presents lies. No boy who had brought himself up
properly could fail to appreciate one of those decorative
bottles of liqueurs that are so reverently staged in Morel's
window--and it wouldn't in the least matter if one did get
duplicates. And there would always be the supreme moment of
dreadful uncertainty whether it was creme de menthe or
Chartreuse--like the expectant thrill on seeing your
partner's hand turned up at bridge. People may say what they
like about the decay of Christianity; the religious system
that produced green Chartreuse can never really die.

And then, of course, there are liqueur glasses, and
crystallised fruits, and tapestry curtains, and heaps of
other necessaries of life that make really sensible presents-
-not to speak of luxuries, such as having one's bills paid,
or getting something quite sweet in the way of jewellery.
Unlike the alleged Good Woman of the Bible, I'm not above
rubies. When found, by the way, she must have been rather a